January Window

by Philip Kerr

  ‘I know. That’s the way I feel about it, too.’

  ‘As a matter of fact, it’s my intention to make one last headline appearance at Wembley. And then call it a day.’

  ‘Sure, Matt, sure. You can lead the community singing.’

  ‘Seriously.’

  Drennan lifted the Scotch to his lips but before it got there I tackled the glass neatly and carried it out of harm’s way.

  ‘Come on. The car’s just outside. I’d let you sleep here but you’d only drink all my booze and then I’d have to toss you out on your shell-like, so it’s best I take you home now. Better still, why don’t I just drive you straight to the Priory? We can be there in less than half an hour. Tell you what, I’ll even pay for your first week. A late Christmas present from your fellow Gooner.’

  ‘I might even go, too, but they don’t let you read in there and you know me and my books. I get so fucking bored if I don’t have something to read.’

  As if in evidence of this statement he glanced down at a rolled-up paperback in the pocket of his jacket, as if checking it was still there.

  ‘Why do they do that? Not let you have books?’

  ‘The cunts think that if you read you won’t come out of your shell and talk about your fucking problems. As if that makes it better. I’m trying to get away from my problems, not crash into them head on. Besides, I have to go home, if only to get my diamond stud back. It fell out of my ear when Tiff belted me and the fucking dog thought it was a wee mint and swallowed it. He’s very fond of mints. So I locked the bastard in the garden shed to let nature take its course, you know? I just hope naebody’s let the thing out for a walk. That stud cost me six grand.’

  I laughed. ‘And I thought I had all the shitty jobs at London City.’

  ‘Exactly.’ Drennan grinned and then burped loudly. ‘I like it,’ he said, pointing to the picture before glancing around the room and nodding his appreciation. ‘I like it all. Your place. Your girlfriend. You’ve done all right for yourself, you canny bastard. I envy you, Scott. But I’m glad for you, too. After everything that happened, you know?’

  ‘Come on, you stupid cunt. I’ll take you home.’

  ‘Nah,’ said Drennan. ‘I’ll walk up to the King’s Road and get a cab. With any luck the driver will recognise me and give me a free ride. That’s what usually happens.’

  ‘And that’s how you end up in the newspapers for getting yourself thrown out of another pub by the landlord.’ I took him by the arm. ‘I’m driving you, and that’s final.’

  Drennan took his elbow out of my hand with fingers that were remarkably strong and shook his head. ‘You stay here with that nice wee lassie of yours. I’ll get a taxi.’

  ‘Straight home.’

  ‘I promise.’

  ‘At least let me come with you some of the way,’ I said.

  I walked Drennan up to the King’s Road where I hailed him a cab. I paid the driver in advance and, when I was helping Drennan into the cab, I slipped a couple of hundred quid in his coat pocket. I was about to close the cab door when he turned and caught my hand and held it tightly. There were tears in his pale blue eyes.

  ‘Thanks, pal.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘For being a pal, I guess. What else is there for people like you and me?’

  ‘You don’t have to thank me for that. You of all people, Matt.’

  ‘Thanks anyway.’

  ‘Now fuck off home before I go and get my violin.’

  There was a man sitting on the pavement in front of the ATM. I gave him a twenty although frankly it would have been better if I’d given him the two hundred. The guy in front of the ATM was at least sober. Even as I’d put the money in Drenno’s pocket I’d known it was a mistake, just as I knew it was a mistake not to drive him home myself, but that’s how it is sometimes; you forget what it’s like dealing with drunks, how self-destructive they can be. Especially a drunk like Drenno.

  3

  When I got back to my flat I found Sonja preparing dinner in the kitchen. She was an excellent cook and had made a delicious-looking moussaka.

  ‘Has he gone?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  I inhaled the moussaka greedily. ‘We could have given Drenno some of that,’ I said. ‘A bit of food inside him was probably just what he needed.’

  ‘It’s not food he needs,’ she said. ‘Besides, I’m glad he’s gone.’

  ‘You’re supposed to be the sympathetic one.’

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘Because you’re a psychiatrist. I sort of thought that it was part of the job.’

  ‘It’s not sympathy my patients need, it’s understanding. There’s a difference. Drenno doesn’t want sympathy. And I’m afraid he’s all too easy to understand. He wants something that isn’t possible. To turn back the clock. His problems will be solved the minute he recognises that fact and adjusts his life and behaviour accordingly. Like you did. If he doesn’t, it’s plain to see where it will end. He’s that rare thing: a self-destructive personality who really wants to destroy himself. He’s a classic case.’

  ‘You might be right.’

  ‘Of course I’m right. I’m a doctor.’

  ‘So you say.’ I put my arms around her. ‘But from where I’m standing you’re the best-looking WAG I’ve ever seen.’

  ‘I’ll take that as a compliment even though I regard the idea of looking like Coleen Rooney as anathema.’

  ‘I don’t think Coleen knows Ann Athema.’

  We were finishing dinner at the breakfast bar and considering an early night when the telephone rang. The caller ID showed it was Corinne Rendall on the phone, Viktor Sokolnikov’s secretary. He was not someone I was used to speaking to very much, a fact of which I was sometimes glad. Like many people in football I’d watched the recent Panorama special about Sokolnikov, which was where I’d learned of the rumour that he’d inherited his business from another Ukrainian called Natan Fisanovich, an organised crime boss in Kiev. According to the Beeb, Fisanovich had disappeared along with three of his associates in 1996 and it was several months before they turned up in four shallow graves. Sokolnikov denied having anything to do with Fisanovich’s death, but then you would, wouldn’t you?

  ‘Mr Sokolnikov would like to know if you can take a call from him in ten minutes,’ said Corinne.

  Instinctively I looked at my new watch – a brand new Hublot – and reflected I wasn’t about to say no to the man who’d just spent ten grand on my Christmas present. I, Zarco, everyone on the team, had got a Hublot just like it.

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘We’ll call you back.’

  I put down the phone. ‘I wonder what he wants.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Mr Sokolnikov.’

  ‘Whatever he wants, don’t say no. I’ve no desire to wake up in bed one morning and find I’ve been warming my toes on a bloody horse’s head.’

  ‘He’s not like that, Sonja.’ I put some plates in the dishwasher. ‘He’s not like that at all.’

  ‘If you ask me, they’re all like that,’ she replied. She pushed me towards the sitting room. ‘You go and wait for your call. I’ll clear up. Besides, you must be tired after wearing that watch all day.’

  A few minutes later, Corinne rang again.

  ‘Scott?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I have Viktor on the line.’

  ‘Viktor, happy new year and thanks again for the watch. It was very generous of you.’

  ‘It’s my pleasure, Scott. I’m glad you like it.’

  I did like it – but Sonja was right, of course; it was heavy.

  ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘A couple of things. First I wanted to ask you about Didier. You saw him today, right?’

  ‘He’s still unconscious, I’m afraid.’

  ‘That’s too bad. I’m planning to go and see him as soon as I’m back. But right now I’m in Miami, on my way to the yacht in the Caribbean.’


  At one hundred and ten metres, Sokolnikov’s yacht, The Lady Ruslana, wasn’t the biggest in the world, but it was the same size as an international football pitch – a fact that did not go unreported by the newspapers. I’d been on the boat once and was shocked to discover that just to fill the fuel tanks cost £750,000 – which was a year’s pay for me.

  ‘He’s a strong lad. If anyone can make a recovery it’s Didier Cassell.’

  ‘I hope so.’

  ‘What about Ayrton Taylor?’

  ‘The head that turned out to be a hand?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  During the same match against Tottenham, Howard Webb, the referee, had awarded a goal to London City when our centre forward, Ayrton Taylor, appeared to head it in from a corner. But almost immediately, while everyone else in our team had been celebrating, Taylor had quietly spoken to Webb and informed him that the ball had actually come off his hand. Whereupon Webb changed his mind and awarded a goal kick to the Tots, which was the cue for our own fans to abuse both Webb and Taylor.

  ‘Was what he did right, do you think?’ asked Sokolnikov.

  ‘Who, Taylor? Well, what happened was clearly visible on the television replay. And the man scores ten out of ten for sportsmanship for having owned up to it. That’s what the newspapers said. Perhaps it’s time there was more sportsmanship in the game. Like when Paolo Di Canio caught the ball instead of kicking it for West Ham at Goodison, back in 2000. I know João thinks differently, but there it is. I saw Daniel Sturridge put one in for Liverpool against Sunderland in 2013 that quite clearly came off his arm, and it was obvious from the furtive way he looked at the linesman that he knew it wasn’t a proper goal. But that goal stood and Liverpool won the game. And look what happened to Maradona in the ’86 World Cup match against England.’

  ‘The hand of God.’

  ‘Precisely. He’s one of the greatest players ever to kick a football, but it certainly hasn’t helped his reputation in this country.’

  ‘Good point. But Webb had already given the goal, hadn’t he? And an accidental handball is held to be different from a deliberate one.’

  ‘Law five clearly states that the referee can change his mind until play has restarted. And it hadn’t. So Webb was quite within his rights to do what he did. Mind you, it takes a pretty strong referee to do that. If it had been anyone but Howard Webb I expect the goal would have been allowed to stand, in spite of what Taylor said. Most refs hate to change their minds. It was lucky, I guess, that we won the match 2–1. I might not be so happy about what he did if we’d dropped two points. But you know, I wouldn’t be at all surprised if Taylor wins the Player of the Month on the strength of that confession. It’s the sort of fair play the FA likes to shine a spotlight on.’

  ‘All right. You’ve convinced me. Now tell me about this Scottish goalkeeper, Kenny Traynor. Zarco says you’ve known him for a while. And that you’ve seen him play.’

  ‘Yes, I have.’

  ‘João wants to buy him.’

  ‘So do I.’

  ‘Nine million is a lot of money for a goalkeeper.’

  ‘You’ll be glad you spent nine million on a goalkeeper if we’re in a penalty shoot-out at a European final. It was the Bayern goalkeeper, Manuel Neuer, who saved Lukaku’s penalty and delivered the Germans the 2013 UEFA Super Cup. He almost won the Champions League for them against Chelsea the previous year. Christ, he even scored one himself in the shoot-out. No, boss, when push comes to shove you don’t want to find we’ve got Calamity James in goal.’

  Calamity James was what Liverpool supporters had called David James – a little unfairly – when he’d played for them.

  ‘When you put it like that, yes, I suppose you’re right.’

  ‘Traynor’s the Scotland number one. Not that there’s much choice up there, mind. But I saw him make a diving save against Portugal at Hampden that the Scots still talk about. Cristiano Ronaldo hammered one from eighteen yards that was going into the top corner all the way, but I swear Traynor must have launched himself twenty feet through the air to fist that ball over the bar. Watching it you’d believe a man could fly. Check it out on YouTube. The Jocks don’t call him Clark Kent for nothing. He’s a nice lad. Quiet. Not at all chippy like some north of the border. Works hard in training. And he’s possessed of the biggest, safest hands in football. His dad is a butcher in Dumfries and he’s got his mitts from him. As big as bloody hams, they are. And his hand–eye coordination is superb. When he did the BATAK Challenge he scored 136. The record is 139.’

  ‘If I knew what that was—’ said Viktor.

  ‘Not to mention his clearance kick. That boy has a boot on him and no mistake.’

  ‘I’ve seen some of the films and I agree he’s good. I’d just feel more comfortable about buying him if Denis Kampfner wasn’t his agent. The man’s a crook, isn’t he?’

  Restraining my first impulse, which was to mention something about the pot calling the kettle black, I agreed. ‘Agents? They’re all crooks. But at least Kampfner’s a FIFA-registered crook.’

  ‘As if that makes a difference.’

  ‘It’s like evolution, Viktor. Agents seem to fulfil a need and I guess we have to tolerate them. Like those birds that sit on the backs of rhinos and peck the ticks out of their ears.’

  ‘Ten per cent of nine million is a little more than a tick.’

  ‘True.’

  ‘So maybe I’ll bring in my own agent to handle it. Zarco thinks I should.’

  ‘I thought that’s why we had a sporting director. To help make deals like this.’

  ‘Trevor John is more of a club ambassador than a deal-maker. He helps promote the club and makes it look good when, thanks to the BBC, I don’t. Between you and me, he couldn’t buy a bag of potato chips without paying too much for it.’

  ‘I see. Well, it’s your choice who you trust to make a deal, Viktor. Your choice and your money.’

  ‘For sure. By the way, did you see the programme? Panorama?’

  ‘Me? Unless it’s football or a decent film I never watch telly. Least of all crap like Panorama.’

  ‘Just so you know, I’m suing them. There wasn’t a word in that programme which was true. They even got my patronymic wrong. It’s not Sergeyevich, it’s Semyonovich.’

  ‘All right. I understand. They’re a bunch of cunts. You won’t find me arguing with that. Will you be at Elland Road to see the match against Leeds on Sunday?’

  ‘Perhaps. I’m not sure. It depends on what the weather is like in the Caribbean.’

  4

  City’s training ground, at Hangman’s Wood, was the best of its kind in England, with several full-size pitches, an indoor training facility, a medical and rehabilitation area, saunas, steam rooms, gymnasia, physiotherapy and massage rooms, a number of restaurants, an X-ray and MRI clinic, hydrotherapy pools, ice baths, an acupuncture clinic, basketball courts and a velodrome. There was even a TV studio where players and staff could be interviewed for London City Football Television; Hangman’s Wood was, however, strictly off-limits to press and public on a daily basis, something the media hated. High walls and razor-wire fences surrounded our football pitches so that training sessions could not be subject to the attentions of tabloid photographers with tall ladders and long lenses; in this way bust-ups between players, or even between players and managers, which are sometimes inevitable in the highly charged world of modern sport – who can forget the hugely publicised shoving match that took place between Roberto Mancini and Mario Balotelli in 2012? – were kept strictly private.

  And in view of what happened on that particular morning at Hangman’s Wood, this was probably just as well.

  Not that there was usually much to see, as João Zarco preferred to leave training sessions to me; like many managers, he liked to observe the proceedings from the sidelines or even through binoculars from the window of his office. Matters of match fitness and teaching football skills were my responsibility, which meant I was able to dev
elop a more personal relationship with all the players; I wasn’t one of the lads, but I was perhaps the next best thing.

  João Zarco controlled the club philosophy, team selection, match-day motivation, transfers, tactics and all of the hirings and firings. He also got paid a lot more than me – about ten times as much, actually – but then with all his style, charisma and sheer footballing nous, he was probably the best manager in Europe. I loved him like he was my own older brother.

  We started at 10 a.m. and as usual we were outside. It was a bitterly cold morning and a hard frost still lay on the ground. Some of the players were wearing scarves and gloves; a few were even wearing women’s tights, which, in my day, would have earned you a hundred press-ups, twice around the field and a funny look from the chairman. Then again, some of these lads turn up with more skins creams and hair product in their Louis Vuitton washbags than my first wife used to have on her dressing table. I’ve even come across footballers who refused to take part in heading practice because they had a Head & Shoulders advert to shoot in the afternoon. It’s that sort of thing that can bring out the sadist in a coach, so it’s just as well that I happen to believe you’ll get further with a kick up the arse and a joke than you will with just a kick up the arse. But training has to be tough, because professional football is tougher.

  I’d just done a paarlauf session with the lads, which always produces a lot of lactic acid in the system and is a very quick way of sorting out who is fit and who is not. It’s a two-man relay and a team version of a fartlek session – one man sprints two hundred metres around the track to tag his partner, who has jogged across its diameter and who now sprints again to tag the same partner, and so on – that leaves most men gasping, especially the smokers. I used to smoke, but only when I was in the nick. There’s nothing else to do when you’re in the nick. I followed paarlauf with a heads and tails routine where a player runs with the ball towards the goal as fast as he can and then shoots before immediately turning defender and trying to stop the next guy from doing the same. It sounds simple and it is, but when it’s played at speed and you’re tired it really tests your skills; it’s hard to control the ball when you’re also running flat out and knackered.